I scoff at that notion. “We’re playing a game of chicken right now, and there’s no way I’m letting that small-minded fucker take this house.”
“Even though you can’t even write in it? You want to fight for the house with no ‘vibe’？” she quips.
“That’s irrelevant,” I exclaim and ball my hands up into tight fists. Every time I talk about Dryston, my hands end up like this.
We met two years ago at a pool party, and I fell for his suave moves. It took me way too long to see that he had Peter Pan Syndrome written all over him.
Unfortunately, leasing this townhouse for three years was the one grown-up thing we did together, and now, it’s a disaster. Living for three months in the same house as your ex-boyfriend, a perpetual frat boy who will never mature, is about as bad as you can imagine.
The only silver lining in this situation is that he’s away for the summer. Thank God.
“There’s no way in hell I’m moving out,” I grind through clenched teeth and swing my eyes to Lynsey in accusation. “I live next door to my best friend! You don’t want me to move, do you?”
She rolls her eyes. “No.”
“Exactly. So that’s that. He’s a spoiled brat who has always gotten what he wants but not this time. He’s summering in the Hamptons, for God’s sake, so he can afford his own place. I’m staying put.”
“It’s like a Mexican standoff with you two…I can’t even!” Lynsey growls and runs her hands through her hair. “You enjoy living with your ex for the next year. See how that works out.”
“I’m perfectly happy living down here. This bedroom is actually bigger.” Never mind the fact that the upstairs room has the best views of the mountains. That room is tainted anyway. It reeks of preppy boy cologne and idiocy.
My thoughts are distracted when my eyes land on a familiar logo that I know better than my own for the Mercedes Lee Loveletter brand.
I look up at Lynsey with grave eyes. “It’s a letter from Tire Depot.”
“They’ve figured it out.” She gasps and covers her mouth like we just found out one of our friends is a murderer.
“Stop being so dramatic!” I screech defensively as my fingers squeeze tightly around the envelope. “You don’t know that they figured it out. This could just be like…junk mail or something. Maybe they’re offering a special on oil changes next week?”
“Have they ever mailed you anything like that before?”
“No!” I bellow as the realization sinks in and dread washes over me. I look at Lynsey with wide, fearful eyes. “What if this is it?”
“What do you mean?” she asks.
“What if this is the moment I’ve feared all along? They might be taking my mojo away!”
“You don’t know that,” Lynsey defends. Clearly, we both process feelings differently because now we’ve done a one-eighty, and she’s coming up with excuses while I’m circling the drain of despair.
“They would have no other reason to send me a letter!” I shriek and inhale a shaky breath. “Damnit,” I growl and tear into the envelope to make my death swift.
I unfold the letter that’s printed on the Tire Depot letterhead and read aloud. “Dear Ms. Smith, We’ve taken notice of your enjoyment of our customer waiting area. We are very glad that you enjoy spending your days with us. You have, however, exceeded the limit for complimentary refreshments. Per company policy, enclosed you will find an invoice for the refreshments you’ve consumed in excess of the limit.”
“What?” Lynsey screeches. Jesus Christ, we’re both a fucking mess.
“It’s gotta be a prank,” I force out a fake laugh and look at the second page that lists the itemized products that I’ve consumed. Like a shot, I stand, the mail on my lap falling to the floor. “Holy shit! How did they know?”
“Know what?”
“I mean…this invoice has to be bullshit, but this itemized list is scarily accurate.”
“What do you mean?”
I thrust the paper at her and point to each line item. “I probably have drunk fifteen long espressos and thirty caramel almond lattes. That’s like…exactly my jam. I start my days off with a long espresso and then do two lattes in the afternoon.”
“Oh, Kate!” Lynsey gasps. “The calories.”
“But I don’t eat lunch!” I argue.
She nods, seemingly appeased by that reply. “So this is legit?”
“It can’t be,” I argue, but the growing pit in my stomach indicates I’m not fully convinced.
Here’s the thing. I’m not mad at the one hundred and eighty dollar invoice. Charging four dollars for a beverage is cheaper than Starbucks. But I’m livid over the nerve of Tire Depot! What kind of respectable business would charge a person excess consumption of complimentary coffee?
“This seriously can’t be real.”
“Oh, Kate! You missed a page.” Lysney says, scooping a sheet up off the floor. “It’s for the cookies. Honestly, you’re kind of disgusting. I don’t know how you’re not two hundred pounds by now.”
“Shut up!” I snatch the sheet out of her hands and am mortified at the list. Jesus, I do look like a pig when you list it all out like that. “Wait a damn minute…this says danishes on there. I’ve never had a danish there in my life! I’m being punked!”
I swerve accusing eyes to Lynsey, but she looks way too caught up in this scene to be the culprit. I rack my brain for who else would possibly send me a fake invoice. It could be any number of the people I begged to let me take their cars in…which was an embarrassing number. Or it could be my brothers, but honestly, the logo on the letterhead is way too perfect for it to be any ole friend or family.
My blue eyes meet Lynsey’s brown, and in unison, we both say, “Dean.”
Minutes later, Lysney and I are in my car to head toward our friend Dean’s house about a mile up the road. This little complex of townhouses is a bit of a hidden gem situated on the edge of Boulder. Full of twenty and thirty-somethings with disposable income but no longer riveted by the nightlife of Boulder and needing to be living amongst it. And since the property is expensive everywhere in this area, this spot seems a bit more worth the cost. Out here, you get more space, the wilderness, the views, and still a nice sense of community.
After college, I lived downtown, but as I grew older and began writing full time, living there felt too crowded. I hated how I was constantly swerving around hundreds of joggers when I went for a bike ride on the trails. Jesus, there are a shit-ton of runners in Boulder.
But the idea of moving back to Longmont in the same neighborhood as my parents, two brothers, and their growing families was such a depressing thought. I could see all too perfectly my parents inviting me over on Friday nights while they were babysitting and feeding me hot dogs with mac ’n’ cheese alongside my nieces and nephews. Don’t get me wrong, I love those little rugrats, but it’s really annoying being the oldest sister yet seen as the baby of the family just because I have a job that lets me wear sweatpants every day.